


tell me (you're so into me)

by gabrielgoodman



Series: coda: you've arrived at last, my friend. [4]
Category: Bandstand - Oberacker/Oberacker & Taylor
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Gay Character, Character Study, Gen, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23657815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielgoodman/pseuds/gabrielgoodman
Summary: Jimmy hasn’t been home that long when Donny Novitski barges into his club as if the world and all of Cleveland must adhere to his demands, and if he does not get them answered right away, they will fall victim to his burning temper. Time is a tricky thing, but it seems to slow down when the pushy pianist walks through the back door, making Jimmy lose almost all his composure.-jimmy doesn't expect donny. and then he won't leave.
Relationships: Jimmy Campbell & Davy Zlatic, Jimmy Campbell & Donny Novitski
Series: coda: you've arrived at last, my friend. [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/774261
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33





	tell me (you're so into me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owlinaminor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/gifts).



> So, huh. I haven't written for this fandom in 2.5 years. 
> 
> Well, long time no see. 
> 
> After the Proshot was finally released and I finally got to see it in all of its glory, I've _finally_ written this piece that I've wanted to write ever since I got into Bandstand. Donny and Jimmy's relationship has always fascinated me, especially after it was stated in Jimmy's casting call that he "harbors a secret attraction to Donny" I wanted to dig into this. that's all there is to it.
> 
> Jimmy's coming out scene was cut during broadway previews, but I do still see him very much as a canon gay character; make of that what you will.
> 
> I'm not a native speaker and it's been a while so apologies for any mistakes beforehand. this has not seen a beta reader (as ususal), so I'll come back to always fix things as things go.
> 
> title: (you drive me) crazy - britney spears

Jimmy hasn’t been home that long when Donny Novitski barges into his club as if the world and all of Cleveland must adhere to his demands, and if he does not get them answered right away, they will fall victim to his burning temper. Time is a tricky thing, but it seems to slow down when the pushy pianist walks through the back door, making Jimmy lose almost all his composure; his eyes catch on the dark, slicked hair first, a little messy as if he ran his hands through it one too many times, then to the bridge of Donny’s nose and the cut of his jaw, and everything is as tender and sticky as molasses by the time Jimmy has reached the apex of broad shoulders, the calloused tips of elegant fingers belonging to strong hands, war worn palms. Suddenly, this place he has found so much solace in in between endless hours of studies and sleepless reminders of oceanic guilt, shrinks to the size of a pin.

It prickles just as much.

Then, there’s only the keys and the familiar sensation of a tune working through his system, muscle memory. Impressing someone has always come easy to Jimmy, an overachiever if you have ever seen one, restless in his pursuit of perfection. This, it clings to him like his Navy uniform, tailored to every inch, soaked to the bone.

Donny’s hand is firm and warm, his grip sure. Jimmy swallows thickly as he is holding on, pulling himself up from the piano stool to stand much closer now, Donny coming up to his nose maybe, and like this his eyes are so dark they reflect the overhead lights of the club, dim, off-white where his iris swallows his pupil.

_“Do you know any other guys who served, but young, good looking? Like us?”_

For a brief moment he wonders what has possessed a man like Donny to proposition him here, right where he works. Yes, he is handsome, unmistakably so but he’s got a nerve that etches under Jimmy’s skin. He is no stranger to the danger of hooking up with men like Donny – loud, arrogant, dragging him into bathroom stalls or seedy backrooms and wrapping their hands over his mouth as if Jimmy wasn’t smart enough to keep quiet when his life depended on it. Yet, there is something about them that reels him, returning to it again and again; people have different coping mechanisms and maybe, Jimmy’s recklessness in the pursuit of his desires is just one of them, like alcohol is to others. Oil on a flame, a tightrope act he wanders carefully, the adrenaline his body still seems to crave now that he is out of a war zone.

“ _It’s radio_ ,” he says, because if this all this is, just about the NBC contest, just about guys playing some music, helping them survive, then – “ _What does it matter_?”

His eyes peering curiously at Donny, challenging him. Jimmy isn’t stupid, he has played this game before, he has heard all the lines, has figured out all the different codes, ways to get what you want in a world that doesn’t _allow_ what you want. They have their own book to play by where the rules of society don’t apply, and Jimmy knows every single page for his own safety, of course, just another measure to protect himself. Now, though, he is unsure if Donny is aware that he is throwing the book out of the window and making up his very own rules to the structure of this scene, because this is not how it is supposed to go – there are other people here, clearly able to listen in if they would want and this is Jimmy’s goddamn job, and he is one of the goddamn best you could get, he won’t risk everything, he _won’t_ – not for a sharp jawline and big, dark doe eyes, not for every single inch revealed by too many buttons undone, not by the skin of his teeth.

There is Gin on Donny’s breath that makes Jimmy want to lick it off his lips, and that, it simply _shouldn’t_ _be_.

_“If we win, we get to be in the movies. Do you know any?”_

He does. He knows all of the guys who are like _them_ , he knows some of them a little too well even. Still, when he turns around to put his saxophone back into its case, it is as if Donny’s eyes are still right there in front of him and not at the back of his head.

He might’ve kicked in a little more than just the backdoor.

*

_JIMMY: I know a guy, he kicks it on bass, his regular gig is at Oliver’s place._ _He’s better than anyone, when he’s not high, (…) then yep, I can tell you, that I know a guy._

_*_

The morning light is too bright, the early September bearing traces of late summer and August still, but it is warm on the sheets and warm on Jimmy’s skin, even through the blinds. He doesn’t wake up in someone else’s bed often anymore, but this is one of the rare occurrences where he had to make an exception, and really, the company could truly be worse.

“You haven’t been here in a while, Jimmy,” Davy’s voice is rough with sleep from where he is perched on the side of the bed, looking at Jimmy with warm eyes. He remembers how they looked at him in the heat of the night before, confused, slightly surprised that Jimmy would come by, but he welcomed him, nonetheless. Davy, Jimmy has found out, is like a safe bet in that he is so steady, so gentle, so steadfast that despite the bottles strewn around his flat, he will always make room for you in his bed. He will, also, always hear you out if you have something to say that he might enjoy.

Jimmy’s lips curl up into a small smile, reaching for his glasses on the bedside table that is crowded with lowball glasses collecting the dust dancing around the room.

“I have something to ask you,” Jimmy says, earnestly, mindful of the blanket pulled up to his hips, mindful to maybe pull it up even higher just for the sake of modesty though there is nothing Davy hasn’t seen yet so what does he care. This is not like navigating the same kind of minefield that was yesterday, laid solely by one certain Donny Novitski, intentionally or not.

Davy nods his head, understanding; mirth sits within the dimples on his cheek that are hardly visible beneath his beard. Davy is handsome, like a Byronic hero, strong and stern and unyielding and yet, there is something soft beneath the roughness, something that Jimmy enjoys looking at when he catches one of his sets, watches him pluck the strings of his bass, mesmerized by those precise hand movements; while he tends to joke about being too drunk to play, Jimmy knows no one plays the bass better than Davy Zlatic. No one else stands on his feet as solidly as Davy, seemingly drawing the rhythm out of the ground beneath, an unshakable foundation.

If Donny Novitski wants to go all the way to New York, he needs Davy and maybe, Jimmy needed Davy too, for just one night. To make him forget that clever, quick mouth and those dark, trustworthy eyes.

“And here I thought you just came to me to discuss some Hamlet,” Davy chuckles, but he reaches out and places a hand on top of Jimmy’s biceps; the sun is broken up by every knuckle, splintering like shrapnel on their skins.

“Something like that,” Jimmy murmurs, once again reminded of Donny’s hunched shoulders, holding himself like a man haunted by ghosts of the past and shattered memories. Uncanny, the resemblance to the Danish prince.

Davy tilts his head slightly, one of his curls begging to be pushed out of his forehead now; Jimmy’s hands are itching to do it, all too aware of this fatal flaw he possesses deep within himself that is brought out by beautiful men. It makes him weak and predictable, and for some reason, Jimmy despises that idea because he would rather be put together; his existence has fixed points that he needs to survive, to feel like he at least belongs to himself if this world has displaced him out on Sea already. He might be back home in Cleveland, but it feels like he has never made it out of that shipwreck, like he is still treading the same deep waters.

“What is it, Campbell? You look as if you just bit a lemon whole. Out with it.” 

Jimmy sighs and sits up. He needs a cigarette for this and as if he has read his mind, Davy turns away and then, he leans back in again to pass one to Jimmy, as well as a lighter. The first drag eases his mind, and Davy is still looking at him, waiting patiently for Jimmy to give him an answer because he has caught on to how Jimmy’s mind works almost instantly; he is not pushing him in the same way Donny has pushed him for an answer, for a demonstration, for everything.

“There is this kid, Donny Novitski. He asked me, well, practically ambushed me to play in a band with him for the NBC contest, and he needs a band full of veterans. I said you’re the best bass player I know, I said he should come with me to the Rio tonight to meet you,” Another drag of his cigarette, his eyes flick up to Davy’s, “Are you up for it?”

The answer isn’t immediate. Davy is looking into his eyes as if he is trying to make out if Jimmy is actually being serious (Jimmy is nothing but serious, why is Davy even questioning his intentions), and then he reaches for the cigarette between Jimmy’s lips, pulling it out to take a drag of his own, and his mouth slides into a smile so swiftly that Jimmy almost envies him for that ease.

“Why not,” Davy agrees with that grin of his, so infectious. Then, his expression shifts and there is something about it that makes Jimmy immediately avert his eyes, focusing on his fingers caught in the sheets rather than the scrutinizing gaze pinned on him now.

“You like him, don’t you? That Donny,” Davy asks teasingly, and Jimmy huffs out another sigh; of course, that particular detail wouldn’t be lost on his friend, or whatever they are. Not more than that surely if they are to play in a band together and that is just fine with Jimmy.

“Maybe,” he replies testily.

He wonders how much conviction one can hold within his body and how hard you can pretend there is none of it.

“Maybe,” Davy echoes, knowingly, like someone who has more to say but simply chooses not to, and for once, Jimmy doesn’t know if he should be grateful.

*

_JULIA: I don’t need to be rescued._

_DONNY: What if I do?_

*

Jimmy doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t how to balance his law degree and the band and Donny Novitski showing up at his doorstep at seemingly all hours of night to talk about rehearsals and songs and gigs and whatever else he can wrap his head around. His living room has become some kind of base now, planning the trip, pouring over charts and arrangements, sheets and sheets and sheets of music in the warm glow of the lamps, figuring out Julia’s words, the perfect key for her voice to sit in, the right time signature for Davy and Johnny to hold steady. Donny is sitting so close to him right now that their shoulders keep brushing and Jimmy can smell his aftershave and the beer he brings over every time he comes by, a heady scent that lingers long after Donny has left and sometimes crawls so deep under his skin that he has to open the windows to air it out or he will lose his mind.

Donny takes a swig of his beer, another one and the alcohol has tinged his cheeks red, and Jimmy is trying very hard not to stare, not to get caught up in that web. He has no idea, Jimmy thinks, and it’s better that way, it’s better that he doesn’t know about these ugly feelings inside of him that he ignores until it is dark and he cannot sleep, when he thinks of Donny’s fingers on the keys of his piano, for once calm and without tremor, the timbre of his voice when it slides up to a B in full chest and rocks the foundations of whatever club they are playing in. Unlike Jimmy, Donny is vibrating constantly, barking orders at them left and right; he is always loud, he seems to be angry too, an anger that has woven itself into the fabric of Donny’s being and is ignited as quickly as a hand grenade, an anger he cannot get away from that threatens to burn him up. It tends to vanish when he is playing with them, when he is listening to Julia’s words that fill in his compositions now, leaving no empty gaps where once was a strive for authenticity at all cost.

 _“You like him, don’t you?”_ The words are ringing in Jimmy’s ears and he is tugging at his tie, loosened already but apparently not enough for he feels like he cannot possibly get enough air into his lungs; Donny’s skin is warm where Jimmy’s hand finds it in passing every now and then, he has taken off his shirt an hour or so ago – Cleveland might be nearing December but Donny is always running hot, always flushed, his blood simmering and boiling in his veins – leaving him in his undershirt and his shoulders and arms bare. Jimmy has got the distinct feeling that he is going to die of how much he desires Donny in that single moment, and if it is of mortification of having that thought alone.

God damnit, he needs to get himself under control.

“Jimmy, are you okay? Hey buddy,” Donny asks him as he looks up from where he has been going through the lyrics to a new song, and where Jimmy has simply been staring at his mouth form the words under his breath as if he were back in eleventh grade and falling hard for Josh, the pianist in his high school band that kept making the eyes at Jimmy for no particular reason but to potentially make puberty his personal living hell. If Jimmy remembers correctly, Josh never got drafted, works in a neat little corner office now and saw Jimmy one night at the club. He couldn’t even look at him; they either hail you a hero or they have heard of the other sacrifices made once returned home and they pity you, won’t cross your eyes in fear, as if they could be tainted by the pictures tormenting your conscious every day. As if it is a sickness spreading around.

Jimmy swallows, dropping his eyes to Donny’s notebook on the table where his terrible handwriting has noted down numbers that Johnny has in his head just so. Johnny and his ocean blue eyes, Jimmy is terribly well aware.

“I’m fine, Donny,” Jimmy replies tiredly, out of all the people to ask he would have least expected Donny, for some reason. Rather, Julia comes to mind, or Wayne, who pretends he doesn’t care about this band that much when Jimmy can read it in his tight schedule, in how much of himself he has given to every note, that this band means more to him than he would ever admit in front of any of them.

“Am I bothering you? I’m sure you have to study, I just thought – it’s late and you could use a break,” Donny tends to ramble a lot and has about zero awareness of the fact that people actually do need to sleep, and Jimmy is one of those people because while he does have long nights, he cannot burn the midnight oil seven days a week, unlike Donny who only crashes for a few hours until he is running himself rigged again. Jimmy considers keeping caffeine away from him for point, blank forever so he will ever catch the chance of getting a full night’s sleep. He is sure it would do him wonders.

“You are – never bothering me, Donny.” That’s a lie if he’s ever told one but Jimmy has no care to share that with Donny, so young and desperate for approval that it sinks into his cheeks and moistens his lips, cuts the words and phrases on his teeth so they come out all jumbled together, a messy, unpredictable order, syncopated. Donny Novitski is edges everywhere and Jimmy has noticed that from the first moment he saw him, impossible to miss when you feast his eyes on him. He is so handsome, he is practically begging to be looked at and he is begging for your attention at all times.

Jimmy’s attention is pointed, direct and unwavering; Jimmy is like the sea he once got lost in.

Donny is like the shore he returns to.

“But it is really late, and I should get some sleep, I have class tomorrow and I haven’t quite finished my reading yet.”

When he says that, Donny’s face falls for just a second, just one beat, before it clambers up and is smoothed into a careful, neutral expression; he doesn’t like going home on his own, being in that place and staying up all night, waiting for the nightmares to come, Jimmy has caught on to that, how could he not? Every single rehearsal they have, Donny shows up with darker circles under his eyes, his hair greased back scarcely, in need of a proper shave that he never quite gets around to and that leaves Jimmy wondering if there will ever come a time that Donny will take care of himself properly, or if it is another one of those vices they carry around, trading their catastrophes like badges of honor.

“Yeah, no, you’re right. I should get going, it is late, let me just – “ and he is scrambling for the pages and for his pencils, scrambling up so he almost trips over the chair, almost stumbles over his own feet and he is still close enough for Jimmy to just reach for him, stopping him short with a hand on his waist that only rests there for a fraction of a second, pulled away as if he has burned himself on the same man he longs for too much to even be in character anymore; Jimmy doesn’t know himself like this, Jimmy has never wanted to.

“Donny,” he says sternly but quietly, finding those dark, endless eyes like a blind man turning towards the sun. “You can stay here if you want, pack it all up in the morning. Take the couch, I don’t mind.”

He is getting up, taking Donny’s beer bottle and his glass to the sink while he can hear Donny busy behind him, shuffling papers around and stacking them, the bottles to his feet clinking when he is moving the chair, and Jimmy is aware of the footsteps on his soft carpet but not of Donny suddenly appearing right next to him, all warmth and eagerness.

“Jesus Christ,” Jimmy curses, dropping his glass, running water splashing onto his hands – the feeling makes his stomach swoop and his toes curl in the worst of ways, water lapping onto frozen fingers, clasping pieces of iron and wood in the hopes to make it out alive.

Donny exhales softly, “Sorry,” and Jimmy is afraid to turn his head and look at him, too afraid of what he might do when that is not his place to begin with, when he shouldn’t, when he knows Donny will spend the night here and it will be bad enough, it will mean not a single minute of sleep for probably either of them.

Jimmy focuses on washing the glass, picking it up again and giving it a proper rinse, taking a deep breath. He can do this, yes, he can, this is – just like playing a solo without the back up. This is just like being caught in a burning house.

It feels like it lasts forever, Donny close to him like this, his nose basically on Jimmy’s shoulder, and his elbow pressing into his back, pushed up against him, and once again Jimmy wonders if Donny is aware of what he is doing here, this game they are playing once again; no one else would do this, no one that wouldn’t want to lure Jimmy to bed at least, Nick never touches him like this, neither does Johnny, and Davy has stopped the morning he asked him to join the band.

Only Donny does this in all his devastating intensity.

He is going to put Jimmy into an early grave, that is for sure.

*

_HORATIO: Goodnight, sweet prince._

*

Donny looks younger asleep, Jimmy finds out in the morning when he is getting ready to go to class, the pianist knocked out on his couch, his knees drawn to his chest and his brow furrowed; no wonder Donny doesn’t find peace like this either but who of them does? Dreams are just as extension of their service, a reminder that they cannot outrun what has altered them so utterly, not even at their most vulnerable, _especially_ not at their most vulnerable, and Jimmy told Donny that night of the first gig, he said, “ _I play to forget that shit_ ,” and it rings true still, it will ring true until the end of his days, when he is too weak to hold up a saxophone anymore, no matter how often Donny will demand him to.

There is a copy of Hamlet on the coffee table, one, that Jimmy is sure he left somewhere in the middle of a stack of books that he doesn’t need at the moment but prefers to have on hand anyway, and it is turned downwards to mark the page Donny must have left it at last night. Jimmy’s gaze softens impossibly, taking in Donny’s messy hair, curling onto his forehead, his slightly parted lips, his chest rising steadily with every breath; only after a moment lasting a heartbeat or two, he realizes he’s been making sure that Donny is still breathing.

Stricken, he turns away. There is no place for this here. The whole living room smells like Donny’s aftershave; it will take days for it to air out, it will take weeks for Jimmy to be able to forget it.

Jimmy feels like Horatio. He can’t shake that, either.

*

The view out of their hotel window isn’t bad, but he knows it could be better; not that Jimmy is particularly picky regarding that detail because they are in New York after all and he has never been here, they are about to be on a broadcast for the whole nation to see if they make it on air, and given the DNA of their band, he is quite sure they will. He has never let himself believe in something as he is letting himself believe in this band and in their song, in how he believes in Donny’s vision, from the moment he came in through the backdoor, just another soul with dreams and impossible Hollywood aspirations.

The thing with _Donny Nova_ though is that there is nothing impossible for him. He assembled that band, just like he willed this trip into existence, born out of sheer force of will, he manifested this future for them with a fierce determination that Jimmy has never seen before, not like this anyway. Donny is as if lightning struck twice and someone bottled it up and forced it into a single man, he burns so brightly that Jimmy can simply stick around to keep him alight.

They are sharing a hotel room, of course. It really is a quiet masochistic notion but the only one that seemed reasonable; Wayne and Nick are living together already, Johnny and Davy get along so well, and Donny and him make sense together, at least, they are like two slightly wonky puzzle pieces together, fitting after all. That Julia would get a room of her own has been out of question from the moment they started planning this at Jimmy’s too-small kitchen table, barely fitting two grown men, but still they squeezed in.

Jimmy is already undoing his shirt buttons as the door opens and Donny stumbles in, disheveled and clearly slightly tipsy, probably one gin too much, or martini, or whatever he got up to in one of those bars. They have a few days off, there is nothing wrong with letting off some steam but Jimmy’s lips quirk up at the thought of Donny being the one berating them about keeping it calm, and now stumbling in here with the same tinge of pink to his cheeks he always gets when he is well on the way of getting drunk. One of Jimmy’s eyebrows ventures towards his hairline and he turns to properly look at Donny, who is sort of leaning against the door now, breathing.

“Donny, are you alright?” He asks, the simple act of caring for someone you love has never come this easy to him. He has always been bad at it, so much of it relying on adhering to societal norms that aren’t quite his own, rules that do not apply to who he is. There it is: the tightrope again.

What he is feeling for Donny – it should have fizzled out long ago but instead, it has grown into something more admits the greatest adversaries; there is truly nothing impossible when it comes to _Donny Nova_. He remembers the first time they met, how taken he was with Donny’s broad shoulders, the inches of chest always revealed by shirts sloppily buttoned, the column of his throat and the sharp line of his jaw. He is taken by it again now, in this hotel room in New York City. It seems like an incredibly bad idea for someone like Jimmy, so prone to playing it right, playing it safe. Donny, he has enabled this … _hazard_.

“I’m fine. One martini too many, I think,” Donny answers him vaguely, his hand doing a weird motion, and Jimmy sighs to himself. Caring for Donny is a full-time job, he has learned.

“Will you be okay, or do you want me to get you a glass of water?”

Instead of answering him, Donny simply walks towards his bed and falls into it, face first and then curling up onto his side. He looks young again, like this, like the mere 23 years he is old, even if his insomnia and the war have left his marks on him, marks they all carry around, like the dog tags around their necks. Donny just seems to carry his own right on his sleeve, unable to hide them with pain killers or law books. They all have their poison, and they all have their medicine.

Donny might be more of the first for Jimmy.

“I gather then that you need a minute or two, Donald,” Jimmy tells him simply, and Donny smiles then, unusually.

“Only my mother used to call me Donald,” He mumbles. Jimmy decides to not react to that particular admission, sometimes, it is better to just not give Donny that satisfaction.

Still, the corner of Jimmy’s mouth twitches and he pushes his glasses up his nose, coming closer to inspect if Donny is in need of any immediate attention (he always is, but that is not the point), and as he peers down at him, slightly owlishly, Donny’s hand comes to wrap around his wrist and Jimmy stops what he’s been doing, unmoving like a statue.

One man’s touch can turn Jimmy to stone, he has always known. It just has to be the right one.

_Or the wrong one._

“You’re so good, Jimmy,” Donny mutters, his glazed eyes looking up at him and dismantling all of Jimmy’s defenses, he doesn’t even stand a change. Donny might be insufferable, but he also has Jimmy in the palm of his hand; it’s uncomfortable, that realization. Jimmy would rather not dwell on it when Donny’s warm, sweaty fingers are wrapped around him, sinking into his skin, and it is all he can think about. Donny is so beautiful; Jimmy is going to simply lose his fucking mind. “You’re such a swell guy, I just love that. Michael told me about you, you know?”

Yeah, he _is_ going to lose his damn mind.

Donny’s eyes are closing now and Jimmy is still looking at him as if there is anything he might say that wouldn’t ruin this, anything but the truth really, anything but giving in to the urge to push Donny’s dark hair out of his face, to kiss the corner of his mouth and see if it does taste like Martini or if New York makes him taste differently.

“It’s okay, Donny. You should sleep if you can,” Jimmy says into the silence. Donny is rarely silent.

And then, when he is sure that Donny is asleep and not a single soul will ever hear, after he has stepped away and changed out of his clothes into his pajamas, he whispers, “I love that about you, too.”

It is _stupid_.

Maybe, Jimmy could use some foolishness.

*

In the morning, Jimmy wakes up to Donny being much more himself than he was the night before, already awake, sitting on his bed and writing frantically into his notebook, lyrics maybe or melody or plans for the day.

Jimmy simply allows himself to look at him, take it all in; he has changed into a different pair of pants and a new undershirt and he is not wearing any shoes, his feet are socked; his hair is damp from a shower he must have taken, it curls slightly, the way it always does when it is wet or sweaty. He looks beautiful, with the sunlight hitting him just right as if his skin was soaking up the winter sun, a rare occurrence; Donny’s skin must be used to soaking up the sun with him being half-Italian. He must always look this good, Jimmy thinks, allowing himself this for once and not feeling the shame it usually brings.

Donny is like a beam of light; Donny is like Van Gogh’s Starry Night, there is a purpose behind the mess now, finally. Jimmy can see it when he is looking at him like that, Jimmy sees it when he watches him on the keys, Jimmy already knew it when Donny still had to use his whole body to conduct the band, before Julia ever entered the picture, when New York was nothing but a pipe dream, one threatening to turn ugly and rotten like other dreams too, the nightmares haunting them.

He allows himself this luxury; what is Pullman cars and the hotel Astor to one, is the gaze upon the man you love to another.

Only after another long moment, Jimmy realizes that Donny is looking right back.

**Author's Note:**

> the davy/jimmy part was inspired by one of brandon ellis's live tweets where he said that "davy was propositioning" max's and jamie's ensemble characters after band in nyc as they left the stage. I took it and ran with it.
> 
> thank you so much for reading.


End file.
